


Acts of Heresy: A story in six parts

by MueraRashaye



Series: Friends Across Borders [3]
Category: Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Corrupt Sunpriests, Gen, Heresy vs. Treason, Implied Character Death, Mention of torture, Psychic Abilities, Some angst, Witchburning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MueraRashaye/pseuds/MueraRashaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Herald and a Sunpriest walked into a stable, and emerged unscathed, ten months ago. Firestarter Kir Dinesh receives a letter, asking him a deceptively simple question. How does he feel about a spot of treasonous heresy?</p><p>He tells himself he's just going to go and see what is going on, but the moment he didn't burn the letter to ash the question was answered and his path in the priesthood took a sharp turn to the right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Request

“Message for the Sunpriest!” a small child came running up to him, waving a scroll and obviously proud of himself for delivering a message to the Sunsguard’s priest. Kir took it with a smile and brief blessing for the child, too young to flinch away from the black-edged robes of a firestarter, cracking the seal and reading with increased disbelief.

His cousin from the north passed on greetings, and wondered if he’d heard news of the extended family in Hardorn? He’d been trapped in Sunbeam Brook by some well-meaning in-laws and would appreciate any aid which could be offered, even if it was simply a merciful death, because they would not stop asking him when he would settle down and produce children for the glory of Vkandis.

He felt a deep, desperate desire to travel ten months back in time and light a certain white-clad demon-rider on fire. Truly. A meeting in a Hardornen inn when it was freezing was one thing, asking him to break him out of imprisonment with the Sunsguard (and probably some Sunpriests, maybe even a black-robe!) was an entirely different matter.

“Your Holiness? Your letter is smoking,” one of the scouts, Beltran, spoke up with only a slight tremor in his voice. Kir snapped his attention to the slowly smoldering corners and grunted, the brief excitation in the paper quieting, leaving it cool to the touch again.

“Thank you, Scout Beltran,” he said courteously, deciding to ignore the fact that the child had immediately made himself scarce at the sight of smoke. His expression had probably also not been particularly welcoming. “Where might I find the Captain?”

It had been a mere two weeks since he first actively interfered in battle. His subsequent collapse from exhaustion after the Sun-Setting service had at least stilled any rumors or fears of his being superhuman, but even now only the Sergeant could meet a frustrated glare from him without reacting. He had hopes though, the Captain was only blanching.

That would probably change, with the ruse he was going to have to put up to deal with this. Damn and blast that Herald. Now he got to become a true heretic should he act on this, and for the low cost of reminding the entire blessed unit of the realities of a Firestarter’s duties.

At least it would get him some credit with the black-robes that had started arriving in the area as their “reinforcements,” summoning Furies and then vanishing back behind the lines and leaving them to deal with the wretched things.

As Kir had overheard the sergeant snarl, “We wanted _less_ violence, not massacres!”

So now he got to go and deal with a Herald, on top of his already careful work to ignore and cover-up ‘heretical’ thoughts that were nothing more than those he kept locked behind his own teeth. Blasted witch probably deserved the burning, but if he knew anything about Hardorn, which he must, then Kir’s unit could use the intelligence.

And Sunlord how he hated those _screams_.

Following the scout’s directions, he went to the tavern where the Captain was meeting with the village headman. The Captain, not too many years older than Kir, looked up and raised an eyebrow at his expression, actually managing to restrain his reaction to a twitch of his fingers towards his knife. The headman paled dramatically, but Kir ignored him, that was a common reaction to an angry Firestarter amongst civilians, he was probably afraid that Kir had found evidence of witchcraft in his little hamlet.

“Your Holiness,” Captain Ulrich acknowledged him.

Kir held up a different letter – the one that had assigned him to this unit in the first place, just under nine years ago. The seal of Sunhame had been carefully preserved by him, as that seal opened many doors.

“I must depart for Sunbeam Brook,” he said shortly, “My services are required.”

He watched dispassionately as the headman visibly flinched and the Captain, at least, restrained it to a tightening of his expression. “Will you require an escort?” he asked instead, obviously hoping the answer was no.

Kir thanked the Sunlord that he was able to refuse, citing both his own skills and the needs of the unit. The last thing he needed was a terrified Sunsguard to deal with. “I will not,” he replied calmly. “I will get supplies from the quartermaster and ride out at once, if that is acceptable.”

“Far be it for me to stand in the way of Vkandis’ Will,” the Captain backed down immediately, Kir nodding and turning away to leave, grimace twisting his features. Vkandis’ Will, to burn children. To burn true malicious witches, and Hardornen enemy soldiers, that he would accept. But _children_ …

He could almost feel the trust, carefully, meticulously built over these years unraveling in his hands. He had worked _so hard_ to find a place as a mistrusted Firestarter, and in three short weeks the entirety of it was falling apart thanks to Ancar and one wretched Herald.

The quartermaster had apparently already heard, handing him a full pack with stiff wishes for his safe travels. Kir had simply nodded, accepting the pack and riding out immediately, Riva not particularly happy with him, but used to it. The life of a Sunpriest’s horse was either a luxurious, rider-less one or one filled with fearful servitude and little appreciative attention outside their rider. Riva had gotten the short end of the stick.

He reviewed his knowledge of the area as Riva loped down the well-maintained road. It was a ground-eating pace he knew the gelding could keep up for a few marks with brief rests. He let the horse have his head for pace at the moment, so long as they were going briskly he didn’t particularly care.

Sunbeam Brook was a large farming settlement, one of the furthest north that was truly profitable, and lay two days hard ride away. He would take three at Riva’s pace and taking back-roads, because he didn’t want his presence reported until he determined what approach he was going to take to the problem. It depended on what he heard in the last town – if the Herald had already burned then… well, he had tried.

If the Herald had been taken to Sunhame… it depended on when he had left and if Kir would be able to catch up, but an acquaintance of a night was not worth assaulting the entirety of the Sunhame priesthood.

There were small chapels and prayer areas all around the roads, as usual, and he would probably easily be able to find an empty one to use near Brook. In Brook proper there was a decent sized cathedral, permanently manned by a priest and two acolytes from what he remembered. For a Herald to be captured, there had to at least be a squad of the Sunsguard, probably a small cluster of squads, possibly even a full unit. He doubted it was a full-sized Company, there would have been rumors of a Company on the march.

There would also be Sunhame priests, possibly a black-robe, definitely a red-robe or two. He touched the soft white Sun-in-Glory hanging on a similarly-made prayer-chain around his neck. He kept it hidden under his robes, but he had only been able to hold out a month before boredom and the high quality of the horse-hair led him to making a personal pendant out of it, embedded with as many repenting prayers as he knew.

He hadn’t been struck by lightning or accidently set on fire during the battle-pyres he burned regularly, so he supposed he wasn’t a _total_ heretic. Just a tiny one.

He snorted, Riva’s ears flicking back as the gelding slowed to a jog. A tiny heretic. Just a few minor acts against Sunhame: collusion with the enemy, failing to kill a witch and demon, and now intent to offer aid to One Who Is Condemned.

Yes. Not a heretic at all.


	2. Rescue

Anur bit his tongue to keep from screaming as the red-robes tied him to the pyre, a six-year-old _boy_ bound next to him. The child had detected him as a holder of witchpowers somehow, Anur would guess Farsight or Mindspeech of some sort, and been condemned for his honesty because he couldn’t explain how he “just knew”. Those _bastards_.

He’d broken after the second day, revealing he was a Herald which really didn’t help matters, it just made it harder for Aelius to get anywhere near the town without being detected. He had _begged_ Aelius to get himself out, the Companion agreeing he would, if he at least tried to contact Sunpriest Dinesh by Fetching a letter to him. Anur had agreed, Fetching the very barely coded letter to him that first night imprisoned and sending it to “the nearest mail carrier to Sunpriest Kir Dinesh”.

The letter had actually gone somewhere, to his surprise, but he didn’t hold out much hope. Blind Fetching was more of a miraculous series of coincidences than anything, and he was in the wrong country for miracles.

Then it turned out Aelius had no intention of actually leaving, not until he was dead and there was no hope left. Gods _please_ let Aelius get out, getting this child killed along with him was bad enough.

He ignored the priest denouncing him and the corrupted innocent, apparently witch-powers were infectious now, and shored up as many mental blocks between himself and Aelius as he could. He didn’t want his Companion to feel this alongside him.

Torches were lowered by the acolytes, one actually from the village and looking pale, the others traveling with the red-robe and looking blank. They were barely adults themselves, gods what was _wrong_ with this country?

He couldn’t restrain his sharp inhale when the tarred wood caught light, child next to him whimpering, only to blink in surprise when the flames roared up in a perfect ring around the _edge_ of the pyre – hot, but not actually burning them. “What the - ?” he murmured, staring incredulously at the flames and hearing startled shouts and screams from outside.

 _:CHOSEN!:_ a triumphant scream pounded through his mind, flames parting and his Companion, mounted by a white-clad and masked figure, plunged through the gap. A lash of flame snaked out and destroyed the ropes tying him and, blood pumping, Anur didn’t even feel his injuries as he reached up to pull himself behind the other rider. With a smooth swoop, the rider scooped the child up in front of him and Aelius whirled, launching out of the flaming ring unerringly, gap appearing before them only to close behind.

The rider pointed at the Sunpriests, and roared, “ _FOR VALDEMAR!”_ as they charged off, flames leaping in the direction of his gesture and the red-robes shouting as they struggled to shed their heavy and now flaming robes. That should at least delay pursuit.

And Anur _recognized_ that voice. “Sunpriest?” he gasped incredulously, Aelius plunging into the scrub, clearly having a destination in mind.

“Herald,” Kir Dinesh replied.

**One Day Ago…**

Kir found a long-unused chapel a few leagues north of Brook. It was within a day’s ride of the Hardornen border, so it had probably been abandoned soon after the raids began with regularity. Official war or no, border people were not stupid. He had taken a circuitous route, and made sure to remove Riva’s tracks as he went in to inspect the town on foot. It had been three days since his departure from the unit, red-robes abandoned for simple homespun he had always kept a set of. Firestarters were expected to go to any lengths for their calling, so undercover clothes were not unusual, except for the fact that few Firestarters would deign to take even a temporary drop in status.

He had been eyeing the town from a perch in trees around the fields, noting with some trepidation that a large pyre was being built at the steps of the cathedral. On the one hand, the Herald was probably still here. On the other, he had really hoped to avoid this decision.

He sighed heavily. As soon as he had resolved to come and check on the situation, the outcome was inevitable.

A whicker startled him from his thoughts on just how he would manage this, and he looked down into dull blue eyes. Flinching away, he looked at the village, then back down at the dirty white horse-shaped being below him. “Witch-horse?” he whispered, the beast nodding.

His shoulders slumped. It had been a very, very slim hope.

Climbing down easily, tail-hair Sun-in-Glory hanging heavily around his neck, he stared at the decidedly _not_ awe-inspiring horse. It looked exhausted and desperate, giving him a look he had last seen on an animal gored by bandits.

“Is the Herald still alive?” he asked, beast nodding again. “To burn when? Tonight?”

A no, tomorrow then, at high noon.

A nod. Fantastic. The blasted beast was reading his mind. Scowling at it, he pointed at it accusingly and said, “I ask yes or no questions, you at least grant me the _illusion_ of privacy. Yes?”

A nod.  He frowned at the saddle-less creature, an idea slowly starting to gestate in his mind. It would get the Herald out, and keep suspicion from falling on him.

“Have you packs?” he asked, trying not to think too hard on his idea unless it flutter away – it was so tenuous.

The beast nodded slowly and Kir almost smiled. This just might work. “Take me to them,” he ordered sternly and the beast nodded, turning to stand beside him in a clear invitation to mount.

Kir felt his heart start to race, fists clenched as he looked over at the creature’s neck, “It is far?”

A nod. Fantastic. He stared at the broad white back and sighed, muttering, “I suppose I’m condemned either way. What’s one more heresy?”

Hopping on easily, he twisted his fingers in the animal’s mane and when he was just settled the beast launched into a lope, the smoothest he’d ever sat. Hmph. Too smooth. If all the creature’s gaits were like this, it was no wonder Heralds were so hard to unseat.

The next morning found him lurking in the trees again, Witch-horse saddled and him wearing one of the spare uniforms he had hoped to find in the pack, a scarf wrapped around his face and hair, leaving only his eyes showing. With many yes or no questions and a few scraped words in dirt, they had assembled a rough plan of action. Apparently the Herald was not speaking to the Witch-horse, in an attempt to keep it from feeling his pain.

Kir ground his teeth, shifting in the saddle uncomfortably. _Sunhame_ priests, damn them all. You burned witches, you did not _torture_ them first!

He saw the Herald dragged out, tied to the pyre and snarled when he saw the tiny figure dragged up to be tied next to him. A _child_! They were burning a _child_! May they freeze eternally, the Sunlord turn his face from them and grant them no mercy, a _child_!

He barely even noticed that the Witch-horse had begun his charge, people screaming and dodging as he wrenched control of the fire from the poor excuse of a Firestarter and forced the blaze to attack those who had started it, parting before him as they plunged onto the pyre. One lash cut the bonds and the Herald pulled himself up behind him with little aid, Witch-horse pivoting to flee the moment he pulled the child up in front of him and launching through parted flames again.

Unable to curse as he wished, he settled for shouting, “FOR VALDEMAR!” when he set the flames on them, unable to suppress a smile at the Herald’s incredulous, “Sunpriest?”


	3. Recovery

By the time they reached the shelter, taking another circuitous route, Kir was just relieved to see Riva standing still loosely tied to a low tree, contentedly munching on scrub-brush. He was contemplating how exactly he’d get off with the two semi-conscious passengers when the Witch-horse lowered itself to knees steadily, Kir shaking his head and setting the child on the ground before standing himself and pulling Anur up to lean against him.

The Herald groaned in pain, Witch-horse echoing the moan, and he winced, trying to be gentle as he got the Herald into the chapel, lying him down on the sacristy’s single cot. It was intended to be a waystation for traveling priests, but they were seldom used by any but those of low rank on pilgrimage, and this was off the beaten track for pilgrimages. He went back out to fetch the child and instead found the boy sitting up and in a locked gaze with the Witch-horse, he grimaced and shook his head again, heading back inside. The Witch-horse could keep the boy calm while he worked on the Herald. He should be grateful.

Changing out of the oversized whites and into his field robes, already used to blood and stains from dealing with the wounded so he wouldn’t be ruining clean clothes, he went into the sacristy again, glad he had set it up for field medicine the night before. He cut off the stained shirt and trews expertly, boots carefully pulled off.

“Damn,” he muttered, eyeing the dirt-encrusted scabs. This was going to hurt.

Setting a fire to blazing under the kettle with a glance, he rolled up his sleeves and started arranging poultices and herbs, pouring the soon boiling water into separate bowls to steep cleansing herbs and a mug of painkilling tea for when the Herald inevitably woke up.

The Herald was out of it enough he only groaned as Kir scrubbed at the scabs, bleeding starting sluggishly once more, soon subsiding as he stitched the more serious ones. Replacing the cloth keeping sweat out of his eyes, he sighed and lifted the Herald carefully, pulling the now filthy sheet out from under him and gently depositing him on his stomach on the clean sheet underneath it. There were four layers, he hoped he would only need the two.

Tossing that sheet in a heap by the door, he cracked his neck before getting to work on the Herald’s back, not noticing the child coming in every once in a while to refill the kettle with water and stoke the flames. He was too focused on his only basic medical skills.

The sun was setting when he finally finished, cleaning the Herald off with warm water before pulling clean trews and tunic onto him and laying a coarse blanket over him. He had only stirred a few times, to groan in pain or mutter something disjointed in Valdemaran, but had never opened his eyes beyond slits or shown any true lucidity.

“Father?”

He looked over at the door to the main part of the chapel, surprised to find the child there and feeling ashamed, he had honestly forgotten about the child he had pulled from the flames.

“Yes, child?” he asked gently, the small black-haired and dark-eyed boy creeping forward and offering him a small round object. He took it and looked down blankly. It was the Sun-in-Glory he had made the Herald months ago, orange and gold cord now discolored from blood and dirt.

“He hid that in our cell,” the boy whispered, eyes bright as he looked up at him, “He said that the friend who made it wouldn’t want the Red-Robes to find it.”

Oh Kir could see how that would go down: the red-robes would demand to know where a demon rider got a hand-made Sun in Glory, someone would mention that chapels all over had one of the knotted pieces, some Sunsguard chaplain handed them out. An investigation and raid would be conducted in a matter of weeks. Even thinking he would die, the Herald had thought to protect him.

“It would be unfortunate, if those red-robes had found it,” he replied, placing the Sun-in-Glory on the pillow by the Herald’s head.

“I’m Asher,” the boy said softly, dark eyes watching him cautiously, “Asher Selig.”

“I am Father Kir Dinesh,” he returned the introduction, standing and cracking his back expertly. “Would you care to join me for a Sun-Setting service?”

“Yes sir, I’d like that very much,” the boy replied quietly and followed close on his heels into the chapel’s small main room, having three pews and a small altar, ornamentation only richly colored woods, darkened with age.

Flicking his fingers at the candles, he watched the wall-scones blaze in satisfaction before sweeping to face the Sun-in-Glory, traditional prayers and invocations coming easily to his lips. He needed the soothing of the ritual.

The boy’s stomach growled audibly right after the final chant and he blushed at Kir’s amused look. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“No need lad, it is rather late,” Kir replied, “I am sorry for ignoring you like that.”

He shook his head vigorously, “Oh no sir, the White-Rider needed the help more.”

“Still,” Kir shook his head, “Let us see what trail rations we have. That will have to suffice for tonight, I can see what we can mix up tomorrow, but I, at the least, am exhausted.”

“Me too sir,” the boy yawned, following him into the sacristy again. Kir dug into his packs and found some of the honey-cakes he’d packed and dried meat and fruit strips. He passed them to the child along with a mug of dream-tea; while the boy quietly ate in front of the fire, miraculously not flinching away from the flames, he hastily arranged a bed of sorts in the corner, using springy tree boughs and spreading cloaks and the Herald’s bedroll over them, even managing to rustle up a second straw pillow from the depths of a storage closet. It didn’t even smell musky.

The child was droopy-eyed over crumbs and near empty tea when he was done. Kir took the mug away gently and scooped him up in his arms easily. He couldn’t be more than six, and small for the age. Setting him in the nest he’d made, he covered him with one of the blankets and murmured, “Sunlord guard your dreams.”

The boy just smiled sleepily before settling into true sleep with a sigh. Kir blessed the midwife who’d sold him the dream-tea on the road here. It had been a very, very good investment.

Getting to his feet again with a low groan, he went outside with a lantern and bowed his head to the waiting Witch-horse, still tacked. “My apologies,” he offered, “Your Herald should be fine, and I had to settle the boy.”

The Witch-horse gave the impression of shrugging, somehow. Kir shuddered and hung the lantern from an outside hook. The night-sky was not yet completely dark, and it was clear with a bright waxing moon, so it was not entirely necessary, but having the flame near him was comforting as he untacked the beast and put the fine leather saddle and hackamore into the shelter of the chapel. He carried his own grooming supplies, as any true traveling horseman did, and used those to briskly tend to the witch-horse.

The beast leaned into his strokes contentedly and Kir felt a smile twitch at his lips, forgetting for a moment that this was not in fact an extremely personable horse.

Regaining control with a shake, he moved to check on Riva, who whickered happily at his approach. He pulled some dried apple slices out of his pocket and fed them to the gelding, murmuring apologies for leaving him tied up all day. He untied him and led him to the spring, bringing him back to tie him up again only to find his way blocked by the again gleaming Witch-horse.

He paused, eyeing the beast before sighing, “You will keep him from wandering?”

A nod. Good, he had guessed right. He did not want to be up all night guessing at the beast’s intentions. He looped the lead loosely around Riva’s neck, securing it with a simple knot, Riva whickering happily at the witch-horse’s snort. He tried to make his way past again only for the Witch-horse to lip at his pockets hopefully.

He couldn’t repress the snort at that, pulling the remaining slices of dried apple out and feeding it to the white beast, who nuzzled his hand thankfully after eating them. He tried not to think too hard about it, instead going back to the chapel and taking the lantern down, carrying it into the dark sacristy, fire now banked down to low flames and embers.

Blowing out the lantern and hanging it, he let his eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting and pulled his bedroll out, rolling it out in front of the hearth and letting his head hit the pack filled with clothing he used as a pillow with a sigh. He was passed out in moments, barely able to work through half his usual benediction before darkness claimed him.

 

Waking before dawn, as usual, he grumbled to himself and rubbed sleep out of his eyes. Restocking the fire with wood, he used a bare touch of power to get it going again and set more water to warm. Thank the Sunlord this place had a spring and pump system, he had been very happy to find one so equipped.

Taking the warm water outside he indulged in a quick scrub-down, pulling on clean small-clothes before re-donning his blood-stained clothes and overrobe, splashing his face with the now cool water to finish waking himself up. He dumped out the bucket and then refilled the kettle, setting that water to boil as he checked on his patient.

The Herald didn’t feel fevered, in his inexpert estimation, and actually stirred when he propped him up to get him to drink some lukewarm tea, drinking down the whole mug on his own. He was encouraged, with any luck the Herald would wake up today.

“Father Kir?” a tired young voice yawned and he resettled Anur as he looked over at the boy, smiling in the pre-dawn light of the one window.

“Good morning, Asher. Did you sleep well?”

“Mmhmm,” the boy nodded. “Is it time for the Sun-Rising sir?”

“It is. Would you care to join me?”

“Yes please sir,” he yawned again, slowly getting to his feet and shuffling after him into the main area. Kir shook his head ruefully, the boy was dedicated, he’d give him that. Going to the sun-rising service after a late night was hard for him even now, much less when he was a quickly bored child.

The joyful service was nice though, a young and slightly off-key voice joining him in the hymns and chants. He hid a grin at the boy’s yawned interruptions. He hadn’t done a service with children present in – Sunlord had it really been five years?

“Go forth and do the Sunlord’s Work,” he concluded, turning to his companion and smiling, “Which right now, means breakfast. Honey-cakes and porridge?”

The boy lit up at that, and Kir chuckled, setting him to watching the porridge he quickly tossed together while he went out to check on the horses and visit the privy. He returned and gave directions to Asher, also setting a bucket of warm water out for his own wash. By the time Asher returned, hair dripping a little, the porridge was ready with a liberal scattering of dried fruit and half a honey-cake with each of their bowls. He eyed his dwindling supplies as they ate and sighed. The chapel was stocked with travel rations too, but to avert suspicions he couldn’t use too much.

For that matter, to avert suspicions he couldn’t spend much longer than a week and a half from his unit. At least they would be going the same direction as the 62nds base of operations to get Anur out of the country.

As if the thought had prompted him, Anur groaned and turned his head towards them, brown eyes opening slightly and brightening as he recognized the pair. “Sunpriest?” he rasped.

“Ach, Herald,” Kir sighed in relief, moving over with a mug half-full of tea, “Drink,” he ordered, helping the man sit up. He obediently gulped it down, sagging against him with a hiss of pain. “Privy?” he asked, Kir nodding and helping him to his feet, Anur swaying but able to slowly walk with his assistance. When they got back Asher had already gotten another serving of porridge and dried fruit ready, more water in the kettle to boil for tea. Anur carefully settled on the cot again, leaning back against the cupboard that served as a headboard, Kir carefully arranging the blankets and pillow to offer the most support.

A whicker interrupted Anur’s thanks for the porridge and they all looked up at the window across from them. The small, thick-paned thing was firmly latched, but Anur’s expression was enough for Kir to nod at Asher, who ran over to throw it open, the witch-horse sticking its head in entirely. Anur fumbled to put the porridge down, Kir taking it and setting it aside; by the time he had it safely placed on the mantle the Herald had already stumbled over to the horse and had his arms flung around it, shoulders shaking as the beast’s neck arched in a clear parody of an embrace.

That was enough to set Asher to sniffling and Kir briefly rolled his eyes to the heavens. Ah, yes. _This_ was why he hadn’t missed ministering to children.

He crouched down and held his arms open, that invitation all the boy needed to plow into him and bury his face in his chest, crying and sniffling quietly. Kir sighed. Blood, sweat, dirt and snot. These poor robes. At least the witch-horse sun-in-glory was between them and his undershirt, so was protected from that indignity.

A whinny interrupted his musings, and he looked up to see Anur swaying. Sighing and standing with Asher in his arms, he went over and wrapped an arm around the Herald’s waist, helping him limp back to the cot, handing him the bowl of porridge and sitting down in the sacristy’s one chair, dragging it with his foot to sit by the Herald.

The witch-horse kept its head in the window, the Herald’s changing expressions enough to indicate that some form of conversation was going on. It wasn’t until the two burning victims smiled at each other and Asher giggled that Kir realized he was the only one _not_ in the conversation.

It was enough to remind him of his recent isolation from the already stand-offish unit he was assigned to, and he quietly excused himself, setting Asher down on the chair and heading for his packs, pulling out his project cloth and heading out of the room, Asher and Anur both smiling and waving slightly before returning to their silent conversation.

He headed outside and greeted Riva, pulling himself up onto the gelding’s bare back and heading out into the trees. He might find some berries or evidence of game to supplement their meals, he told himself, saying as much aloud so the witch-horse could hear him and pass the message on. No need to alarm them.

Who was he kidding? He snorted bitterly, Riva’s ears flicking back to him. He eyed the horse sadly and said firmly, “We don’t need words, do we Riva? We understand one another just fine, old friend.”

The gelding just snorted, slowing from a brisk walk to an amble as they wove through the trees.

He looked down at the project cloth in his hands and sighed, letting the fabric fall open and getting to work on yet another Sun-in-Glory, warm brown suede his material this time. Riva stopped at a stream some time later and he dismounted, sitting cross-legged on the sun-warmed dirt and continuing to work, taking comfort in the repetitive task.


	4. Reunion

Anur chuckled at Asher’s enthusiastic story about his little sister and a cat, the boy grinning at him. He was a good mindspeaker, apparently the trauma and Aelius speaking to him to calm him down was enough to fully wake his Gift. He looked up and shared a knowing look with his Companion, before he frowned, noticing at last that the sun was nearly at its peak. “Where’s Kir?” he asked.

Asher frowned and looked around, saying worriedly, “He’s not back? He was just going to look for game, right?”

The boy very quickly started to hyperventilate and gasped, “What if he’s been captured? They’ll know where we are we have to – ”

“Easy, easy lad, take a deep breath, there’s a lad,” Anur soothed. “He’s not captured. We’d know that, wouldn’t we? He’s just out wandering.”

Asher nodded weakly, still looking worried. Anur struggled to find something to distract him, before deciding for them both, “Why don’t we go look for him? Maybe he’s gotten distracted by a particularly beautiful sunbeam patch or something.”

That prompted a giggle from the child and Anur sighed in relief, ignoring Aelius’ stern look and slowly walking out of the chapel, Aelius sighing and meeting them around front, going down on his knees so Anur could step on, Asher sitting in front of him.

“Any idea what way he went Aelius?” he asked, his Companion replying, _:Yes, I saw him leave. And I’m afraid I realize why too,:_ the slightly ashamed tone didn’t bode well, _:Ah – I cannot read him, Chosen. He blocks his mind now, but I can pick up feelings when he’s not focused on how scared of me he is. He’s, well, he’s lonely. A lot more than at the stables in Hardorn, I think.:_

 _:And we just went and had a nice long chat he couldn’t even listen to,:_ Anur winced, Asher blocked from this conversation and looking around for their Sunpriest as they rode.

 _:Yes, well. I’m afraid I was just so happy to hear you again I rather forgot we were being rude,:_ Aelius admitted.

 _:I’m just as guilty old friend. So let’s go find him and apologize,:_ Anur nodded determinedly, _:And figure out what happened to make him so morose.:_

He spotted him first, with his superior height, and pointed the more visible grazing gelding out to the boy who grinned and jumped down from Aelius’ back, running over to the man sitting nearby and shouting, “Father Kir! Father Kir!”

The Sunpriest looked up from what Anur recognized as a knot-work Sun-in-Glory. He had been happy to find the one he’d left in the cell near his head when he awoke, and had immediately hung it around his neck again. Asher had apparently pocketed it to make sure no one would find it even after they were burned.

The smile the Sunpriest offered him barely covered up a bone-deep tiredness, and Anur frowned slightly. Some of that could be accounted for in springing the two of them and caring for them both, but not all or even most of it.

Asher was talking quickly and excitedly, explaining about how _cool_ it was that he could talk to Aelius and he had great stories, did he think that Valdemar really had as many cats as Karse did? Anur winced, impressed by the only slight stiffness that came into Kir’s smile at the clear reference to witch-powers: Asher didn’t even notice. Aelius interfered then, and asked if Asher wanted to go exploring while the he and Kir caught up. Asher agreed eagerly and Aelius lowered himself to his knees so Anur could get off and Asher could hop on again, gleefully rejoining a mindspeech conversation as they went away at a brisk walk.

Kir was frowning at him, “What are you doing out of bed, Herald?” he demanded and Anur had to shake his head. The word Herald just sounded so _odd_ in a Karsite sentence.

“We noticed you were missing and Asher started panicking. I was worried too,” he said simply before grinning, “Besides, I’m not that bad off, nothing broken! Which is a bit of a miracle actually, but I’m almost good as new!” he twirled, arms spread to prove it as he grinned, glee interrupted by a wince as his back’s wounds protested the twist. “Ouch.”

Kir snorted, getting to his feet and helping him sit down on the ground, “Idiot.”

“Am not!” he retorted, “I was undercover for two months, and they only caught me because Asher was a little too trusting of his priests. He heard me, I think.”

He rapped his temple to indicate exactly _how_ Asher had heard him. Kir’s eyes tightened and he looked away, Anur biting his lip slightly. He had never actually gone against Karsites before this – not seen what exactly a Firestarter’s duties were and it – it was worse, than he expected. Knowing that he was friends with someone whose duties boiled down to lighting innocent Gifted on fire.

“The last time I lit a purifying flame, it was to execute a villager who had been selling secrets to bandits in exchange for targeting rights,” Kir said lowly, eyes on the medallion he was crafting with practiced hands. “They cheered, there, when he screamed.”

Anur nodded, recalling the hangings he’d attended over the course of his duties. There had been quite a few cheers at those, even when the knot was poorly tied and the convicted jerked around as they suffocated. Maybe even especially at those.

“I couldn’t sleep for a week without hearing them,” Kir shuddered, “I _hate_ the screaming. That’s why I became a Firestarter. I was good at it, good enough to send a flame roaring so they died without a chance to truly feel the burn. It was all the mercy I could offer as a witch-hunter, because if I let a witch-child escape by ignoring the signs, the next red-robe would find them and they would not be so merciful.”

Anur just listened, it sounded like Kir had waited a long time to get this off his chest, and he clearly had more to say. The brook and clear sunshine pouring down provided an almost tauntingly tranquil background for the ugly talk.

“We’ve been getting raids by Hardornen regulars mixed with bandits,” he continued, “As many as two a week, one moon. I helped with the wounded, my duties were off the battlefield,” he hesitated, before elaborating, “Most Firestarters need time, elaborate invocations and gestures to get a true flame going. Many times they don’t bother, simply using torches and then urging the flames higher. The truly wretched use only torches and tar, letting them burn for a full half-mark,” both of them shuddered at that.

“I’ve seen you though,” Anur reminded him, “You need none of that, a word and a look at most. Are you just more powerful?”

“No, I am a very weak mage,” Kir snorted, “I simply practiced at firestarting, I wanted to be the best, so I studied flame, in all its forms. Candles, bonfires, holy, condemned, wild, set – I learned all I could in Sunhame and continued into my acolyte years. I was considered a Firestarting prodigy. If I were any more powerful they’d have made me a black-robe in a heartbeat.”

Anur decided to let the mage thing lie, for now, instead prompting, “So they thought you were useless for battle.”

“And I promoted it,” Kir shrugged tiredly, “Not many talk to Firestarters to begin with for fear of heresy accusations. Add in that one sharp look can set them aflame and, well, few would speak to me indeed, beyond bowing and scraping. And I like talking with people.”

“I guessed,” Anur said wryly, smiling, “I’m the same.”

“No, really?” Kir smirked, before returning to his story, “But a crossbow shooter nearly got the corpsman when we were evacuating wounded from the field two weeks ago, and it just made me so _angry_. All this work I’d done to build trust with them, and they wouldn’t even let me watch their backs. All this work I’d done to never hear screams again and I heard them every wretched _night_ between wounded and nightmares. By the Sunlord I just wanted the screams to _stop_.”

“So you set them on fire,” Anur supplied. Kir only nodded shortly, continuing, “I stopped the screaming, right enough. But they tried to give me living mortally wounded soldiers for the battle tithe. Living! Still struggling to breathe! I _never_ burned living Faithful! _Never!_ They always had mercy first, but they thought – they _dared_ – never! I just… I just wanted the screaming to _stop_.”

By the end Kir was stumbling over his own words, vacillating between burning rage and desperate grief, Anur reaching out and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, the Sunpriest shuddering sobs, somehow still twisting knots into his sun motif, fingers not slowed.

“So now they’re terrified of you,” Anur murmured, “Gods – ah, forget I said that. Curses, Kir. I’m sorry.”

Kir chuckled wearily at his slip-up, glistening eye looking up at him with amusement, “Sunlord Herald, you’re going to get yourself burned one of these days.”

“Oh shut up,” Anur pouted theatrically.

“Twice now, I’ve put out fires you get yourself in,” Kir continued, smile growing while Anur glowered petulantly.

“I totally could have saved myself the first time! I just needed to run out in the snow, I’d have been fine!” he insisted, perfectly willing to continue the banter to get Kir out of that ball of hurt he’d curled into.

“Oh yes, you, drunk off your ass, would be able to stagger, while _on fire_ , clear of all the flammable material in the stables and make it to snow,” Kir snorted, waving his hand dismissively, “Please. You would have burned up on the ground while I laughed myself sick at the irony, and then your witch-horse would have broken down the stall door and trampled me for my insolence.”

Anur opened his mouth to object but found he really couldn’t. With as drunk as he was at the time, he probably _might_ have made it to the snow, but it was a little suspect. Besides, the point wasn’t to win the argument, the point was to get Kir smiling again, and he definitely was, even if the smirk was a bit more smug than a true smile.

He pouted instead, Kir just rolling his eyes, “How mature.”

Realizing he’d have to get back to the issue that had dragged them all out here, he smoothed his expression and said, “I wanted to apologize, Kir.”

“For getting yourself caught? Forgiven,” Kir waved off, “How did you get that letter out by the way?”

“Wait the letter actually _made_ it?” Anur asked incredulously, “I figured you had been called in your office as a Firestarter or something.”

“Well, that’s what I told my commanding officer, but no, I received your letter,” Kir frowned, “Did you not send it?”

“No, I did, but… um… remember the cloaks? It’s not just having thing fly to me, I can send thing to places further away without them flying through the air, they just appear. But usually I need to be able to see where I’m sending it, so when I sent that letter I was basically hanging everything on a thin prayer that ‘the mail carrier closest to Kir Dinesh’ would work. I was surprised the letter actually went anywhere. Blind Fetching… er… sending like that… is basically a series of coincidental miracles when it works even with a strong gift,” Anur explained, correcting his automatic insertion of the Valdemaran title for his Gift carefully.

Kir nodded thoughtfully, looking back at his medallion, “I wondered,” he replied calmly.

“And anyway, that’s not why I wanted to apologize, though I do owe you sincere thanks for actually coming for me,” Anur continued, “I wanted to apologize for earlier today, when the three of us sort of ignored you. I was just – I was so happy to hear Aelius’ voice again, and he mine, that we sort of… forgot,” he shrugged helplessly.

Kir was staring at him in true surprise, before nodding, slight smile playing at his lips as he said, “Apology accepted, Herald.”

“I’m glad to see you again,” Anur blurted, “And not just because you saved my life,” he corrected, “It’s nice to see you again, truly.”

“Surprisingly, it is nice to see you again too, though when I got that letter I seriously contemplated the merits of letting you live ten months ago,” Kir’s sardonic smile took the edge off the threat though and Anur just laughed in relief. He was free, breathing easy, enjoying a beautiful day with a friend he’d thought lost and well on his way to healing.

There was very, very little that would be able to bring him down right now.


	5. Running

If Kir had known the thought that ran through the Herald’s mind while they enjoyed the beautiful weather, he would have smacked him, injuries or no. One _never_ tempted ill-luck like that. _Never_. One would think a country as filled with different faiths would have at least heard of _that_ superstition.

He had set snares as the scouts had once taught him years ago, and gone out the following morning to check them after performing a brief Sun Rising ceremony with Asher participating and Anur watching curiously. When he came back, he found the witch-horse lurking in the trees, Riva nibbling at some scrub calmly, and a new mule tied up to a hitch post, trough filled with water.

“Priest?” he asked the witch-horse, who bobbed his head, then seemed to hesitate and shake it. Kir shook his own head, he didn’t have time to try and interpret things, not when the other priest might already be calling for aid with a scrying charm.

Leaving the carefully field-dressed rabbits in a bush, he readied his knife and ran in a low crouch to the chapel, staying out of line of sight of the few windows, all high and narrow except for the one in the sacristy. Working his way around to the sacristy window, still a little open, he heard faint laughter, sounding as if it were further in.

Hesitating, he peered over the edge, finding a pale-faced Anur sitting up on the cot, staring at the window with a death-grip on his sword. The Herald caught sight of him and shook his head wordlessly. Kir snarled, like _hell_ was he leaving after all the work he’d done, and he sheathed his knife, boosting himself up into the window, carefully pushing it further open so he could step down, easing it mostly shut so no increased draft alerted anyone in the main chapel.

The door itself was shut, so he felt no need for caution when he walked over to Anur’s side and murmured in his ear, “How many?”

“Just the one,” he muttered back, “Asher recognized him, the village’s eldest priest. Black-robe, don’t know what kind.”

Kir carefully extended his senses and grimaced, “Mage,” he murmured, Anur flinching both in memory and in pain at the sudden motion.

“He, he doesn’t _sound_ like he’s in any danger,” Anur pointed out doubtfully.

“Yes well, more flies with honey than vinegar,” Kir pointed out quietly. “Now hush. Your witch-horse is in the trees, you call him and get out that window. I’ll send Asher after you and deal with the priest. It will be…messy, if he’s a summoner. Go north. Get across the border and to safety. I’ll catch up if I can.”

“We’ll wait,” Anur said, “By the brook from yesterday. We’ll wait until high-noon or detecting pursuit not you, whichever comes first.”

“Right. Does the priest know you’re here?”

“Asher hasn’t said anything, and Aelius got out of sight before he arrived,” Anur replied, slowly standing and making his way to the window. Kir bit the inside of his lip briefly, before nodding, “Call him, tell him to run towards the sacristy, on my mark.”

“Right,” Anur said, a brief look of concentration coming over his face even as the Witch-horse appeared in the window, untacked of course. The saddles were in the chapel. Blast it. They should still make it, if they moved fast and didn’t do anything stupid, but if this was a black-robe then he had probably already sent word to summon Furies and send them after.

Well. He’d just have to win, wouldn’t he?

“Mark!” he shouted, slamming the door open and flaring every candle in the place to roaring heights, Asher turning on his heel and bolting past him, door slamming shut behind him and he heard chiming hooves pound away. The elderly man got to his feet, power glistening in his eyes as he said, “There is no need for that, my son.”

Kir stayed in a slight crouch, circling the edge of the chapel warily, flames leaning towards him as he moved, burning through their wicks almost immediately and running entirely on his will, only strength of mind keeping the walls from catching alight.

“I placed wards on all our abandoned chapels, simple line wards, to alert me when someone crossed the boundaries. It allowed me to meet pilgrims, and keep people undeserving from taking advantage of the supplies held here,” he explained calmly. “Imagine my surprise when I get an alert that someone has occupied the chapel long-unused as it is close to Hardorn, a mere day before someone on a White-Demon bursts through my village to rescue a Demon-Rider and one of my children from the Purifying Flame.”

“What a coincidence,” Kir replied coolly, internally berating himself for not checking for ward lines. “Your plans, Black-Robe?”

The man let his eyes shut, bowing his head, whispering, “You may not believe me, but I felt nothing but joy when I realized one of the children I’d watched grow from a babe had escaped such a fate. It is a common problem, the Firestarters say. They blame it on the cunning of the demons causing such witch-powers, but I cannot help but find that these dangerous witches are the same children I taught basic counting and reading to, no danger to anything but their parents’ remaining hair-color.”

“All very well and good,” Kir snapped, “You have not answered my question, Black Robe.”

“I plan,” the man snapped back, eyes blazing as he stared at Kir challengingly, “I _plan_ to finish my prayers, inspection of the stores as they are probably low, and return to my village and help the Selig family grieve the loss of their brilliant, bright child.”

Sighing and losing what fire he had, the priest said defeatedly, “I realize you will likely not stay here another night, much less trust me in the presence of Asher again. Please, I ask you, take this to him. It was his favorite text to hear stories from. I hoped to find him here, you see,” a faint smile was on his face as he placed the worn book on the pews. “I will pray at the altar.”

With that the man turned his back to him and knelt at the altar to pray. Kir cautiously let the flames die, unwillingly taking his eyes from the man to return to the sacristy and quickly pack their bags and roll the bedrolls. He roughly tidied the space before exiting, two packs tossed over his shoulder and he went to where he’d place the tack, whistling Ravi over and saddling him up quickly, he walked over to the book lying on the pew and hesitated briefly, before picking it up and stuffing it in Anur’s pack.

“Tell them both I am sorry,” the priest said, an old, tired grief in his voice and Kir nodded mutely, balancing the witch-horse’s saddle on his shoulder and setting the hackamore around Riva’s horn, starting to walk towards the brook. They’d fill their waters there, he didn’t want to stay here a moment longer than necessary.

Chiming hooves approached after he was in the trees for a few minutes, Riva trailing obediently.  He looked up and was unsurprised to see Anur and Asher both mounted on Aelius. The stallion went down on his knees to let the two dismount and Asher ran over to hug him fiercely around the legs, Kir resting a hand on his hair briefly and surprised when Anur pulled him into a rough hug as well, awkwardly avoiding the saddle he still balanced on one shoulder.

“Yes yes, I’m happy to see you too. Can I get this saddle on the witch-horse please?” Kir said, the other two pulling back sheepishly, Anur smiling and saying, “Sorry Kir, just happy to see you’re all right.”

“Was Father Bertrand really going to hurt me?” Asher asked sadly.

Kir saddled the witch-horse as he answered, saying, “No. He was happy you escaped. But it is not safe to return, he might have been followed himself. The most common suspect in an escaped witch is the local priest or local person of authority, particularly if they deal with children regularly.”

“Great,” Anur grumbled, “at least I grabbed my boots.”

“I packed everything and some travel rations for you two, more than enough to get us all to the border,” Kir informed them, deciding to leave the book for them to discover when they were safe. They needed to get moving.

Helping Anur mount and passing Asher up so that he was sitting perched on the bedroll behind the saddle, he reminded him, “Don’t hold too tight to Anur, the witch-horse will keep you from falling so long as you don’t squirm around, and he does not need his wounds aggravated.”

“Will you be coming with us?” Anur asked hesitantly as he swung up into Riva’s saddle after checking the cinches.

“To the border. They may yet send Furies after us, and fire is the best defense,” Kir replied grimly. “After that I will back-track to my unit’s headquarters and weave a tale of escaped witches and failed purifying flames. How tragic.”

“Maybe they’ll realize you didn’t want to set them either,” Asher chimed in, “Then they’ll know you’re a good priest and not fear you.”

Kir just snorted quietly at the youthful optimism, and they rode in grim silence north.

Camping that night, he, Aelius and Anur split the watch amongst them, Asher exhausted and immediately falling asleep after a cold dinner of ration cakes and jerky. Kir lit a small fire and let Anur take first watch, instructing him to wake him the _moment_ he got a sense of something lurking out in the night.

Aelius took the middle watch, under the same instructions, Anur sharing his bedroll with Asher, and Kir was woken for the dawn watch. It gave him time for a quick Sun-Rising ceremony at the conclusion of the watch, otherwise uneventful. He didn’t like it. It was too easy.

They were a little over a day’s decent ride to the border. Anur and he mutely agreed to push on, keeping a demanding pace for as long as Riva could bear safely. Kir murmured praises to his gelding near constantly that day, stopping frequently for brief breaks and occasionally switching with Asher so he carried less weight since the witch-horse Aelius didn’t feel the burden as much.

They were staying far off the open roads and in the dead-zone made by frequent raids from the Hardornen border. A few stubborn sheep and goat herders might eke out a living yet, but they also knew to keep their mouths shut about just who they saw riding through their lands, and if they were ever glimpsed their observers quickly turned around and went the other way for a day’s grazing.

They made a longer stop for supper, giving Riva a chance to get a second wind, Anur assuring him the gelding would be fine. Apparently witch-horses could work some magic on regular horses too, and Kir was too tired and tense to care much at this point. He just wanted these three across the border and _no longer his problem_.

So when he remounted for their last evening push to the border, he barely flinched at Riva’s renewed liveliness and the reminder from Anur that the gelding would need an easy couple days after this work, but otherwise he’d be fine. This far in the dead-zone it wasn’t just bandits to be worried about, Furies roamed these lands with very little obstruction and attacked just about anyone they came across, no matter they were supposed to go after heretics alone.

“If Furies attack us, get out of here,” he said as darkness finally fell. Anur took one look at his face and nodded mutely, understanding that the priority was in getting Asher to safety. The exhausted child was sleeping, held in front of Anur now, one arm firmly wrapped around his waist.

Glowing blue eyes looked over at him and he flinched violently when an unfamiliar masculine voice said, _:You saved my Chosen. I owe you an immeasurable debt.:_

“Thank me by never speaking to me in that manner again,” Kir snarled, knuckles white on his reins and any response by the three witch-powered cut off when he heard the high-pitched chittering border-people feared. At least they were only two leagues or so from the border.

He drew his long-knife and sword, taking a flask of old firestarter and dousing the blades. He tossed it to Anur with a wry grin for the Herald, pushing aside his brief fear and anger at the witch-horse’s presumption, flash of teeth barely visible in the moonlight, “Drink me a toast when you get to safety. _Run!”_

He shouted the last, Riva whirling on his back legs at his signal, Aelius launching forward in a blur of white, running impossibly fast towards the marginal safety of the border. A few angled dark blurs headed for them and Kir howled a challenge, blades lighting on fire with a twist and those blurs igniting with ear-piercing screeches of rage and pain, returning the monsters’ focus to him.

“Come to me killers!” he shouted the challenge, Riva dancing in place as they spun, flames lashing out and sending the now teeming mass of razor black teeth and fierce _cold_ and death into brief retreats. “Come to me and _burn_!”

Lashing out with a whirl of flame, he slashed at one that went for his leg, feeling a tear of razor cold run down his shoulder as he over-extended but Riva kicked out with a scream, sending them back for a moment. “Vkandis Sunlord, giver of life,” Kir recited, two vague shapes igniting in white hot flames as he focused, Riva and he trying to burn and slash their way clear of the mass, night sky and moonlight barely visible between the gaps in the monsters.

“Defender of faith, protector of innocent, burn away these enemies of life, light and warmth with your strength,” he chanted, a traditional Firestarter chant that he had never been able to use; he couldn’t bring himself to use an old psalm against witches, not when they were so often pitiful or unworthy of death.

But for these, he felt no such restraints.

Flames on his blades snuffing out, Riva stood at his kneed command, rock steady as he had been trained to allow Kir to do his work. Looking up at the moon, only occasionally visible through the chittering mass, he waited three long seconds for them to gather courage, and right before they struck, he raised his sword straight up and shouted, “Burn!”

White hot flames burst around him, leaving Riva and he untouched in a scorched circle as it whirled in a fierce firestorm before shooting up into the sky where it lost fuel and faded, Furies vanished, either fled from a stronger foe or truly vanquished. Arms trembling, he sheathed his sword and long-knife, looking across the leagues to Valdemar. Standing just barely visible was a white horse-like shape on a hilltop.

The white horse reared up, a screaming battle-cry barely echoing back to him. Kir smiled, raising one hand and sending a brief shot of fire into the sky. The horse settled on all fours and kept moving, down the hill and out of sight. They had made it. He chuckled, then laughed, long and loud, feeling a huge weight drop from his shoulders. They had _made_ it. He had _saved_ someone from the burning.

“Come along Riva, back south old friend,” he murmured, taking up the reins and turning Riva to the southwest. A bed and stall, warm and clean, beckoned.


	6. Returning

He had underestimated the distance, Riva and he both exhausted by the time the familiar walls of the barracks came into sight in the early morning light. “Oh thank the Sunlord,” he muttered, Riva plodding determinedly towards the gate, Kir barely able to keep from swaying in his seat like a drunkard.

“Identify you- _Your Holiness_?!” an incredulous voice came from the top of the wall, shouting down to his comrades, “Open the gates! And get a medic!”

The gates slowly swung open, and Riva trudged through, stopping on the other side when the gates could shut behind him and refusing to take another step. Kir didn’t blame him, and swung out of the saddle slowly, holding onto Riva’s neck to keep himself upright. The corpsman came running up along with one of the men in charge of the horses, both blanching at the site of them.

Kir focused on the hostler, handing the reins over and saying, “Treat him like a high priest. More than earned it.”

Riva whickered pleasantly, realizing his work was over, and followed the worried hostler with plodding hooves.

“And yourself Your Holiness?” the corpsman, Neivan Janner, asked. “Can you report?”

What he wanted was to sleep, but if the Captain requested a report, then the Captain requested a report. Technically he wasn’t in the man’s chain of command, and this last mission had nothing to do with him, but they were on shaky enough ground he wasn’t willing to compromise that for a report that would take all of twenty minutes.

“Very well,” he agreed, dredging up his last energy to straighten up, “His office?”

“Ah, yes sir,” the corpsman blinked at him in surprise. Kir nodded shortly and strode off, blood, dirt and ash stained robes flaring in his wake. He probably looked utterly disgusting. He felt it too, but his quarters had a private bath, with heated water even, so after this report, he could clean off a week’s grime and get a truly restful _sleep_.

Rapping on the door, he opened it and stepped into the Captain’s office, Captain Ulrich looking up from the reports he was reading and flatly staring at him. “By Vkandis Sunpriest, you look dead on your feet, sit, do you want some water?”

“If I sit, I won’t be able to stand,” Kir reported bluntly. “What do you want to know?”

“I – what?” the Captain stared at him incredulously. “You do not report to me, Sunpriest.”

“I was informed you wanted me to report, I thought in the interest of future cooperation I would allow the request,” Kir said stiffly, not liking the feeling of someone scheming around him.

“I – well, I suppose I would like to know the outcome of the summons, I also am hoping to speak with you regarding your future use on the battlefield, if you are agreeable, but both those can surely wait until you actually get some sleep, and maybe some food,” the Captain informed him rising to his feet and guiding him back to the door.

Blasted corspman, probably had been testing him for reasoning ability or something equally medical sounding. “There was no burning, they escaped the day before I reported in,” Kir said, leaving the Captain staring after him wondering at the specific wording and exactly what had happened to the Sunpriest to leave him in such a state.

Looking over his shoulder before he exited the building to hit his own quarters, thankfully only one building over in the back of the chapel, he said, “If anyone wakes me before noon, I will set their hair on _fire_. Good day Captain.”

He turned around and managed to walk all the way to his quarters and shut the door behind him without stumbling. He blessed whatever kind, kind soul had already poured water into the rough tub he had access too, even setting the whole thing to warm. Stripping out of his truly filthy clothes, he prodded the flames higher to heat the water faster and gladly tried to remove all evidence of his truly wretched long week. Pulling loose, _clean_ trews on, he collapsed onto his bed, muttering thanks to Vkandis before he was out.

 

“Right, before the Sunpriest wakes up, does anyone have any ideas what happened?” the Captain asked his seconds in command, the Sergeant scratching his jaw idly as he eyed the small chapel. The three of them were standing in the Sergeant’s cramped office, where he could see clearly the chapel and the often mucky parade grounds in front of it.

The corpsman, a lifer Lieutenant of twelve years in the guard, four with their unit, cleared his throat. “He was completely exhausted. According to the hostler, his horse showed signs of at least four days hard travel with little breaks. He’s apparently very impressed that the priest managed to get that much work out of the beast without hurting him. Good horseflesh can only do so much when an idiot rides, I think were his exact words.”

“Sunpriest Dinesh has always been a decent horseman,” the Sergeant replied dryly, “Does no one pay attention to the man’s actions? He has never sent living wounded to the tithe, he came to us with knowledge of horses and decent wilderness survival skills, he was hailed as a Firestarting prodigy until he was sent to us in a permanent posting of the truly temporary type when all rumors about him basically died.”

“You are the only one of us who was here when the Sunpriest was first assigned,” Captain Ulrich pointed out diplomatically, and Greich snorted, “Nine years and I never caught on the man didn’t need his hand-waving. He kept that under his hat and for good reason, with how the men reacted.”

“Scout Beltran started the rumor about him setting his letter on fire in rage,” Janner supplied, “Beltran admits that the letter simply started smoking, and when he pointed it out His Holiness Dinesh thanked him and it stopped.”

“Well setting orders from Sunhame on fire would probably count as heresy in itself,” Ulrich snorted, the other men agreeing mutely. “So the orders weren’t something he was happy to receive. He doesn’t enjoy the witch-burnings then?”

“Were either of you there for that village with the traitor?” Greich asked abruptly, receiving the expected responses, a negative from the Captain and positive from Janner. “The man was selling information on defensive measures to bandits so they would go after people he wanted hurt,” he explained bluntly, “He was sentenced to death by flames, and it was the only time I’ve seen Firestarter Dinesh administer flames to a living person outside that battlefield. And they were not similar in the least – those flames behaved normally, if burning a little stronger and hotter than if they had been set with simple torch and tar. The flames that struck the Hardornens – I have not seen flames that hot outside a forge.”

The three sat silently, considering that, before Ulrich said, “His wording is what bothers me. It struck me as odd, that he said they escaped the day before he reported in. Why not just before he arrived? It seemed oddly specific.”

Janner shrugged, he dealt with blood and medicine, not word-play. Greich, master of the motivational dressing-down, smirked after a moment, chuckling softly before he said, “Because he did not arrive before they escaped of course.”

The other two caught on quickly, paling and staring out at the chapel as if they could see the Sunpriest through the walls. “He would burn for that,” Janner said shakily, “If he was lucky, they would set him alight immediately.”

“And who would burn him?” Greich pointed out, “The man can control flames with a glance, which I doubt is common knowledge. Any who tried to set him alight would be in for a nasty surprise. He is counting on that, or was before he let everyone in the blasted unit see it.”

Ulrich nodded thoughtfully, before saying, “He’s lost his trump card, stepping into the battlefield with his flames, hasn’t he?”

Neither responded, realizing it was a rhetorical question given how obvious the answer was. Ulrich nodded and looked over at his two main assistants in leading this unit, small and under-supported as it was. “Sunpriest Dinesh was unfortunate enough to arrive the day after witches escaped, being forced to pursue by those who failed to hold them. He chased them all the way to the border, when they were attacked by Furies sent to do Vkandis’ will. He was close enough to be caught up in their frenzy, which allowed for the witches to escape to the North,” he informed them, both knowing immediately what he was asking and knowing that though this was the official stance and story, rumors of what their priest had really done would spread, inevitably.

“See what you can do to shut down rumors of his abilities. Paint is as a trump card against our enemies, not wanting to lose him to Sunhame politics and power-plays, even the truth if that would work best. But with an undeclared war and us all that stands between an army, bandits, Furies and our people, we need all the help we can get. And, well,” Ulrich smiled wryly, “I have family near Sunbeam Brook.”

“Never cared for witch-burnings. Evil should be destroyed, but why they could not be killed and then burned I never understood. And children – well. I didn’t think my niece was evil, but the red-robes say that’s the trick of demons, being likeable,” Janner traded that dangerous admission for one of his own, couched vaguely enough that he couldn’t truly be condemned for it.

Greich smiled grimly when they looked over at him and responded in kind, “I served under the Great Traitor in my first years in the Sunsguard. Man had uncanny luck at finding bandits and detecting ambush. The Sunpriest said it was witch-powers, but the Captain had never done anything but do the best he could to bring us all home and protect the people of Karse. I was glad he escaped, and even gladder to hear he had survived, even with the White Demons.”

All three of them sat in silence, contemplating heresy and treason, before bidding one another farewell and going their separate ways. The three most influential men in the unit had come to a decision. The Sunpriest was theirs, and they would not lose him to internal politics and a priesthood they increasingly felt was filled with falsehood.

Kir, when he awoke and started reentering the unit’s daily life, was surprised by the report Ulrich gave him on what he had done in the week and a half he was gone, but pleased. And even more surprised and pleased to find that Asher’s optimistic belief that he might return to find the unit less terrified witless of him was actually somewhat accurate. He had work to do yet, but it wasn’t as hopeless as he had thought.

Who would have thought?

 

Anur nearly wept when he caught sight of the Guard post he had been stationed at for the past three years. It had been a mark since they left Kir after their exchange of signals, and Aelius had only slightly slowed from his pace fleeing the Nightstalkers. He was finally _home_.

Judging by the way the watch called out and more torches were lit as soon as he caught sight of the place, Aelius had alerted his replacement and they were waiting. The Companion only slowed when they reached the gates, halting on the other side as Healers, medics and Heralds swarmed, taking the two riders down and Aelius led to be pampered as he deserved. He just gave up to their whims, barely managing to get out just who Asher was before they were swept into the infirmary, Asher quickly drawn into an assessment and conversation, occasionally reaching out to Anur mentally to seek reassurance.

Anur had been pulled into a private room after confirming Asher wouldn’t panic if he were out of sight, other Herald a woman he recognized from a few years above him, Lenora from out by Ashkevron Keep. She just sat beside his bed as the healer’s examined the wound treatment, a solid, friendly mental presence.

“This is very neatly done,” the Healer commented, “You had assistance I presume?”

Anur nodded weakly, adrenaline rush of the past days finally winding down and leaving him ready to drop.

“My Glenn can get the story from Aelius,” Lenora said gently when he looked over at her wearily, ready to force himself to stay awake and report.

 _:Aelius?:_ he called, wanting to make sure his Companion was getting rest too.

He should have known better, Aelius immediately gave him the mental equivalent of a hug, saying easily, _:Chosen, rest. Please. I will tell them the story.:_

 _:Kir? He – I don’t – don’t let them call him vicious,:_ Anur finally said, still bothered by Alberich’s summation of the order of Firestarters. _:He’s a good person. A friend. Not vicious.:_

_:I know Chosen. I know. Rest. Please. We’re safe now. We’re home.:_

“Home,” he said softly, Lenora pulling him into a hug, the healer leaving as he collapsed against her, crying in relief. He was finally _home_.

 

Two Companions stood in their loose-boxes, to all appearances asleep. In a layer of existence slightly removed, two middle-aged men dressed in Whites from different eras sat in front of a roaring fire, playing hounds as they discussed the recent developments. One of them had a rested, contented air about him, though marred by concern. The other looked as if he had only just recovered from a bout of sickness and should really be asleep, not sitting by a fire chatting with a friend, no matter how comfortable.

“So this Sunpriest, you’d met him before?” the rested, known in both lives as Glenn, prompted.

“Yes, the night before Ancar declared war we were stuck in the stables of an inn in Hardorn, since Sunsguard had just rode into town. It was the usual story,” the eagle-eyed blonde shrugged, “Apparently the Sunsguard have as similar policy and we were joined by the Firestarter. I can’t read him well, he blocks his mind, and only get a vague sense of what he’s feeling, so I didn’t realize what he was until he made some crack about being a Firestarter, so not needing any firestarters. They negotiated a truce and exchanged stories and drinks, somehow winding up vague friends by the end of it.”

“Your Herald can make friends with a rock, I swear!” Glenn laughed, Aelius smiling wryly. That was part of the reason they were partners, Aelius alienated a lot of people with his forceful personality, a more easy-going person like Anur balanced him out.

“The Sunpriest was part of it too, the only thing I could get from him, when he wasn’t terrified of me, was loneliness,” Aelius explained, moving a piece thoughtfully, “It was part of the reason I had Anur give him some of my hair. I wanted to see what he would do, how desperate for some friendship he really was. He took it, made a Sun-in-Glory pendant out of it, actually.”

Glenn flatly stared at that, before saying, “You really found one. A real Sunpriest. From Karse itself.”

“I know,” Aelius shook his head, “I can hardly believe it myself. But he is. Wary of witch-powers and a true believer in burning out evil and all, but a real, honest to Vkandis Sunpriest.”

“Amazing,” Glenn shook his head, “And he saved your Chosen?”

“I was scared of my wits,” Aelius shuddered, “They tortured him for four days. After the first two he broke and told them he was a Herald, then they _healed him_ and tortured him _again_ until the day before the fire was to be held.”

Glenn grabbed the suddenly present bottle of alcohol and poured two large glasses, passing one to his comrade before tossing some of his own back. “He _begged_ me to leave,” Aelius whispered, curling in on himself, knuckles white around the glass. “I told him I would, if he sent a letter by Fetching to the Sunpriest first. It was the longest shot I’d ever made, but by some _miracle_ it actually made it to him and he _came_ Glenn. He _came_. He came and had a base set up in an isolated chapel no one had visited in years, had it all set up for medical treatment and then went to the village to observe from the tree-line. He talked to me Glenn, demanded I keep out of his mind but he _talked_ to me! And dressed as a Herald and saved them both from the flames right as they were being set.”

Aelius chuckled weakly, “And as we rode off, he set the flames on the Sunpriests and shouted, For Valdemar!”

Glenn snickered at that, mental image being presented to him at the same time and still as viscerally enjoyable for Aelius the second time.

“He treated him, and tolerated our obvious use of mindspeech, and he – he barely tensed when the boy discussed it blatantly. He was uncomfortable but he wasn’t _hateful_ , Glenn. I think with time, he’d get used to it. I think – I think there’s some prior experience there, there’s some fear or old memory that isn’t for the witch-powers but is for something associated. It’s mostly the mind ones that he seemed frightened of, I don’t think Farsight or even Foresight would alarm his as much, they’re so close to scrying and he’s mentioned mages knowledgably.”

“Very few are truly comfortable with mindspeech and mind-arts,” Glenn pointed out, “Even I don’t like the idea of someone seeing into my mind without my consent, which is essentially what Gifted can do to non-Gifted with the right training. Without knowledge of our ethical code, and even with it, knowing we’re long-standing enemies would leave anyone nervous of our abilities.”

“It’s not uncomfortable though, it’s honest terror. And he’s clearly aware that Anur is a Herald, and calls him such or by name, but persists in calling me Witch-horse. There’s something there,” Aelius worried over the idea, Glenn calling him back to the main issue with a simple, “Well he’s not your Herald, he’s a friend of him. It doesn’t really matter, what’s hidden away in his head, does it? You need to focus on your Herald first.”

Aelius smiled ruefully, acknowledging that he was tearing into an unrelated problem just a little too heartily, and continued, “So after giving medical treatment to Anur and helping Asher cope, we had one restful day before the village’s black-robe arrived. I hid, Anur nearly panicked but Asher went out happily and distracted him by his own survival. Dinesh had gone hunting and when he arrived he immediately went to get the two of them out, outlining a plan that involved us getting away while he risked his life. When it turned out the black-robe was genuinely happy they had escaped, he brought our supplies out and escorted us to the border.”

“And that was it?” Glenn raised an eyebrow and Aelius snorted, “Is it ever? Nightstalkers found us, of course. A few leagues from the border. I broke whatever sort of truce we had to thank him directly,” Glenn rolled his eyes at Aelius’ notorious hard-headedness, “then the nightstalkers attacked and I bolted. He kept them focused on him and we were able to escape.”

“Did he survive?”

“I think so,” Aelius shrugged helplessly. “We waited in eyesight, and saw a flare of flame. I reared up and did a battle-cy to try and get a response, and another spout of flame shot straight into the sky. I think they made it. Of course there’s no telling if he’ll be discovered as aiding us and get executed for that, but from what he told Anur his ability with flames is one of the best in Karse, and not something known by many. So if those who tried just went to burn him, he’d probably be able to at least take them with him.”

“Which would make poor comfort indeed to your Chosen, but would be something,” Glenn sighed. “Everything hinged on that letter making it.”

“It really did,” Aelius shuddered, “It was a miracle that it worked. His target was the nearest mail carrier to sunpriest Dinesh.”

“Miracle indeed,” Glenn murmured, and the two sat in silence, scene eventually fading as they truly fell into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> So I should be working on the other series I've been neglecting. Or studying for finals (ha, who need finals). But these two are just so much fun! So here's the next installment, hope you are enjoying it. I have thing planned out until Storm Rising, we'll see how that goes.


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